


To Live Forever

by Parthenopaon



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Blood Drinking, F/F, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29177025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parthenopaon/pseuds/Parthenopaon
Summary: You shudder. But you want this too, whatever it is they―no she is offering. You want it because you are tired of being alone, of being used and discarded and forgotten. Lady Dimitrescu will not use you, you are certain. That rock steady attention, the lingering glances, the tantalizing sips that leave her lips a crueler red than they already are, those lips were made to murmur and devour, to drain you of all you are yet leave you unbroken, whole. Remembered, always, even if you were to join the ranks of the lost once more, cast out or torn to shreds.Or after Lady Dimitrescu loses a daughter, another joins the fray.
Relationships: Lady Dimitrescu (Resident Evil) & Reader, Lady Dimitrescu (Resident Evil)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 136





	To Live Forever

“Every so terrible often it comes to pass that I lose one of my precious daughters,” Lady Dimitrescu says, pouring thick, maroon red wine into a glass goblet, those piercing, utterly unsettling eyes never leaving your trembling form, “and every so often, fate intervenes, and one day I wake to find upon my doorstep a woman just as lost as the one that came before.” She sets the beautifully filigreed bottle on the table with a subtle _thunk_ , but that thunk alone is enough to send your heart leaping into your throat.

You have seen too much, experienced too much, to believe this enrapturing giant of a woman is all she seems: sophisticated certainly, an aged beauty with a succulent form the Venus herself would envy, but beneath said beauty, a pallor unnatural, like white marble shading to gray, sickened by an unseen force most vile.

You hug yourself and stoop your shoulders, the marble floors hard on your battered knees, the fireplace too far away to warm your frostbitten flesh. Your clothes are torn, shredded by the grasping fingers of skeletal branches, and you bleed from a long, thin scrape dug into your arm when you crawled in through a broken window, too desperate to question why the wolf-men hot on your heels suddenly whimpered and backed away.

“Are you lost, little one,” she asks lightly, swirling the wine in easy, practiced circles, “or are you merely foolish, seeking warmth like an animal might burrow into the torn belly of another?”

You swallow thickly as the dark, pungent odor washes over you. Beneath the scent of aged grapes, honey-like sweetness, and winter berries, something else lingers, something coppery and bitterly familiar, as familiar as the heart pumping wildly beneath your chest as your tongue remains glued to the roof of your mouth.

Lady Dimitrescu tsks softly and her eyes grow harder somehow, though their color remains unchanging. “Have you no tongue with which to speak?” She leans forward, fingers tapping lightly against the overfull goblet, and from the shadows cast by the curving stair, two women slip into view, tattooed and half nude, hard, predatory eyes lingering on your chest, as if able to see your heart frantically struggle to keep the oxygen pumping to your addled brain.

“I―I apologize. I’m so cold, I didn’t mean―the window was already broken,” you say so swiftly you almost choke, but it seems enough, as she once again relaxes into that enormous, enormous chair.

Everything about her is larger than life, from the long, elegant fingers curled delicately around the stem of the glass, to her full, voluptuous breasts you dare not linger on lest she pluck the eyes directly from your skull. You get the sense that rudeness is tolerated in this household only to a certain degree, and with your being an intruder, you dare not infringe more than you already have.

“Excellent. Terrible as it might sound, a tongue is absolutely essential in my household. Why, how else would you feed upon pleasure? Entertain my daughters?”

The women―her daughters you assume―staring you down snicker lightly, the way their eyes roam down your hunched shoulders making you want to crawl deeper inside yourself. Even the Lady is not so blatant in her lust, though her attention roams and lingers; on your hands, fingers curled into fists, on your heaving breasts, bared by a too-thin shirt and a torn jacket, and on your lips, parted in mute question.

You have no doubt the Lady wants something from you, something darker perhaps than any woman should give, but you are lost and cold and shivering to pieces, and you can feel a strange, alien heat radiating off of her as if she were soaked in a light, not of the sun, but something fiercer still, dark though said light may be.

“So lost, so alone,” she coos, those full, red lips curling upward in a smile that drains the cold and replaces it with a heat nigh unbearable. “It need not be so, not with us,” and she beckons them closer, those daughters of hers who stare at you like they want to crawl inside your skin and never leave.

You shudder. But you want this too, whatever it is they―no _she_ is offering. You want it because you are tired of being alone, of being used and discarded and forgotten. Lady Dimitrescu will not use you, you are certain. That rock steady attention, the lingering glances, the tantalizing sips that leave her lips a crueler red than they already are, those lips were made to murmur and devour, to drain you of all you are yet leave you unbroken, whole. Remembered, always, even if you were to join the ranks of the lost once more, cast out or torn to shreds.

You bow your head, hoping to hide your longing, so vulnerable, so easily shattered, and when her fingers tilt your chin up, skin enticingly warm and achingly soft, you are met with a predator’s white-hot intensity, and parted lips, so succulent, so delicious you crave them more than the warmth rushing back into your flesh, and behind those lips, pearly white teeth sharp enough to rend a sigh from a scream.

“Will you accept my gift?” Though it is framed as a question, a suggestion, and her voice is soft, coaxing, you know that if you refuse, death will be the least of your concerns. Lady Dimitrescu is not a woman to be denied, cast off, talked back to, or made mockery of.

Even had you been foolish enough to slap her fingers away, to glare and snarl defiance, you would not, could not have done so.

Because you want her.

Want her daughters.

Want her to make you beg and scream in the most delicious ways possible.

You whisper assent, prepared to plead with all you are, hoping this is no jest, no cruel jape, that they will indeed keep you as you will keep them and obey her.

“Come to me, my darling,” she murmurs, leaning back into her chair, depriving you of her touch.

You crawl towards her like an obedient hound, head lowered in deference, skin prickling as her daughters scour you with their lust. You brush the hem of her dress with your blonde hair, strands as smooth and dark as honey trailing across pale silk, and her sharp nails trail down your jugular, a warning and promise both, before she tips your chin up, thumb stroking across your lower lip, and you part your lips, obedient and hungering, watching, craving as she raises her goblet, the thick pad of her thumb stroking into your mouth and across your tongue, the wine pouring into your mouth, her smile sharp enough to sever what weak bond remained between you and the cruel, cruel world outside.

Savoring the rich coppery sweetness, rolling it across the tongue, you swallow thickly, a lust addled gasp falling from your tingling lips as the wine burns you from within, spreading like a most heady infection.

She chuckles, and presses two long, elegant fingers down your throat, deep enough to smother your ecstatic moans.

Cruel hands tear at the tatters of your clothes, her daughters―your sisters now―crowding close, demanding and unyielding, clawing at your sensitized skin like animals too long deprived of attention.

You are hers.

As her daughters are yours and you are theirs.

Forever more.

**Author's Note:**

> I love how hot and bothered Lady Dimitrescu has us lesbians. May we sin for her forever more.


End file.
